Entry. [One] [Two] [Three] [Four] [Five] [Six] [Seven]

Entry One.

hmmmm...

it's just another day at my ill-equipped laptop, and i am
thinking about the words.  the babble that occasionally makes
it's way to webpages, chapbooks, and lit.magazines...the dribble 
that more often than not doesn't.  so, why do i write?  

     nothing's on television.

it's almost humorous to think of all the excuses i could make.
but i'd rather not think about that now.

no..i'm not saying i don't like writing.

writing is, between you and i,
my only grip on sanity.

          hold the phone...does that mean you like to write?

of course i do, somewhere beneath the surface
i love to write.

i've always been the kid, clinging to every sheet of paper..
i had to write everything down once, twice, maybe even 
three times..each time a little different than the last.

     i'm not as crazy as you think i am.

ha...of course i am...i'm talking to myself...on a computer even.

uhmm...wait...what was i supposed to be writing about?

     writing, stupid.

oh yeah
so somebody asked me the other day..."what is poetry?"
(as if i could draft some definition from all this talk in my head)

     my reply?  ~poetry is whatever you want it to be.

i've heard so many teachers, professors, writers, journalists, and other
people trying to stamp a concrete definition on something so abstract.

          poetry is that voice in the back of your head,
          scratching at the nerves...fondling everything creative
          it's that ache in your heart when you wake up and realize
          you're out of toothpaste.  it's the empty feeling when
          your best friend is crying in your arms.  the numbness
          in your fingertips and the tension in the back of your 
          eyeballs after staring at a computer screen for hours 
          on end.  the waterfalls, the music, the murals, the mumbling...
          the religious cup of coffee and bagel on the subway.  
          a sanctuary of chaos...  

          at least that's what it is to me now.

yeah, it changes every day...with every poem...every time my pen grips the
paper, a new definition is carved.

     yeah, so what?...do you like writing?

i guess the question isn't if i like to write,

          i love writing . . . it is a gift
          i hate writing . . . it is a curse

enduring long nights at a crudely illuminated LCD screen...
armed with a pot of coffee and a box of cereal,
a few goals to fill before the night crawls away

redefine words
recapture time
write something even if nothing

i hold nothing but the words handed
to me by pondering professors              ~????~ 
information carved off the walls of 
the zoos and prisons we call public schools.
and after the coffee pot is dry and the
cereal has fallen on the floor,
i read and re-read the words
undressed on the screen:

          i write.

~4 april. 97

Entry Two.

Hopeless Insomniac.

I'm finding it hard to keep my head from falling towards the keyboard...

And still I am here...typing whatever pops into my head,
     only to forget what I am trying to say half way through the sen-

          I promise I don't snore...

ok..so I guess this is my cheap way of saying, 
I can't think about anything right now...
     not long enough to write anything

          why am I watching the sun rise?

          crap, 10am appointment...figures

   Insomniac brainwaves
   killing my vision
   spilling any hopes of
   typing this right

   Slimy surrender
   to all the sleepy eyes
   softest pillow 
   dreaming of variations
     on sleep.

yeah...that could pass as an entry, i guess...*scratching head*...

~6 april...errr...7 april. 97

Entry Three.

Back to the Heart of the Matter.

i guess i could sit here all day and write about nothing.

     that would be too easy.
     or would it?

i've often times wondered about the heart of poetry.

     perfection.

is it perfection of thoughts...perfection of style...perfection of
living?      check please.

see i don't see any reason for perfection in anything.

     perfection is false...and needy

imperfection is a beautiful thing.  making it all fit into a handfull
of scattered words and phrases is difficult enough...tell me what is 
perfect?

what is the core of life?

     living

oh i don't know what i am talking about.

          just write it down damnit.

write it all down...rewrite it...make it hurt...make it laugh...make
it sneeze.     just write it down.

who cares if it will make the next publication of that goofy webpage, or
literary mag...who cares if it is pulitzer prize winning material.

     yes, that is all good and nice, but who really gives a shit?

i don't write for validation...i write because something deep inside of
me is trembling

     no, it's not gas.

trembling and aching for some answer...and it's easier for me to 
work through the insanity in words...than to write a perfect poem about
my horrible day, or the saturday's sunset.

           then again...it could be just me.

~16 april. 97

Entry Four.

fashionably late...

Ok Ok...so i've been skimping on the journal lately...honestly
i've been dealing with the wonderful joys of full writer's block.

     or maybe it's that lazy streak again.

during the course of the past couple of weeks, i haven't been able
to squeeze a creative word from the ink of my pen...try as i might.

     perhaps a strangulation of creativity due to stress?

so pondering the forces behind this bland canyon of nothing was
inevitable...

     what the hell is this writer's block anyways?
     personally, i think it's a virus...preying on every original 
     cell in your body...making dinner of your innermost thoughts:
     leaving a puddle of dribbling muck in some kind of cruel joke.

so how does one beat this viral monkey off your back?  hmmmmm...ignore
it.  at least that's what i've been trying to do over the past 
couple of days.  forget about the paper deadline...or the boss' request
for a new proposal...get outside of the mind of someone with writer's
block.   don't let writer's block Have you  (cruel attempt at humor)

     just how good am i at taking my own advice?

well, after ignoring myself for a few days...i finally stopped 
thinking about writing.  funny thing is, the further i get from 
thinking in complete sentences and imagining the poetry...the 
more accessible my thoughts are becoming.  i'm not completely over 
it...as the arena of real life situations are calling on my attention, 
but i'm getting closer to the pen and paper...

hopefully i will have a creative burst; preferably soon...but i won't 
push myself back into complete stuttering block...until i find the words 
trickling, i will rest...pen never far from hand...and a light workout 
every day, of course.

     writer's block?  "kill the beast" (ala Beauty and the Beast)

~29 april. 97

Entry Five (about time eh?)

off the hook...

no, i haven't completely forgotten about this page.  actually i've 
been trying to think of something to write here for the past two 
weeks.  it's not exactly writer's block.  it's just, well...i'm too 
lazy to keep my eyes on the screen.  ok...that's not exactly it 
either.

     truth is, i don't know.

anyways.  i guess i could start (late) by asking myself exactly 
what i'm trying to do here.  fair enough...

     this is really just my way of working through words, 
     encouraging myself to write more...i guess.

that'll work for now.  see, i've been keeping a writing journal 
off-and-on for a few years now.  if nothing else...they were just 
scribbles and scraps of babble.  i don't really have a good reason 
for sending this to your screen...but if you've read this far, 
maybe i'm doing something productive (eh?).

i admit to holding the pen...but i also admit to being a 
somewhat insecure writer.
     (no, this isn't a plea for praise...praise comes when it is 
     deserved)
anything i can do to encourage myself to write ONE MORE LINE is 
worth my trouble.  i am a scheduled writer...that is i do set aside 
time for writing everyday.  but journals (specially writing journals) 
are barely on the top of the list du jour.  yeah, i guess you could 
say i'm wimping out.    i prefer to call it individuality.
     this is a journal...that is mumbles about whatever.
     this is not a daily affair.  it happens when it happens.
     go with the flow. :-P

~19 de mai 1997

Entry Six.

Revisiting Silence.

I will admit that editing is not one of my favorite pastimes...but
what would writing be without revisiting the moments that make the words?
It's harder and harder for me to read what I wrote in darkness and 
quiet times...mainly because emotions well up and there life is, stark
naked afront me on a cruddy lcd screen.  yeah...anyways.

I have come to realize that going back is the only way to go foward.
     cliche eh?
Dunno...I used to think once it was on paper...it was done.  Teachers
stamped a grade of approval (or mostly disapproval) and the papers slowly
found their way to my file cabinet...{I'm a habitual pack-rat...more so
with anything written}.  So, years later...whilst moving my furniture
around...I stumble upon some tattered journals...and sketches that were 
my home years ago.  One thing becomes evident.
          My, how the times have changed.
I have in my hands...the core emotions of a distraught teenager.  
Everyone, with hormones, gushes at sometime or another...spilling 
over something about the first crush realized...or that kid on the 
back of the bus that farts alot.
Ok...we aren't talking super high quality stuff.  But it's there...
it's on paper...and I have grown enough to revisit the bus ride home.  
Under my pen I watch the ramblings of a 16 year old become the ramblings 
of a 17 year old, later becoming the ramblings of years older and older.
The same ideas are witnessed, just further developed.

So, if you've EVER taken a writing class/workshop...I'm sure you've 
heard "EDIT! EDIT! EDIT!".  It's not for perfection...it is for 
growth.  Pull out those journals...and revisit the memories.  
rewrite the moment.  relive the words!

~31 may 1997

Entry Seven.

Selling Coffee.

So it came to mind, as i was sifting through some of the voices delicately
imprinted on the walls of the Cafe Nowhere, what about the real thing?
i've always loved the quiet atmosphere of a poet's cafe...one where candles
flicker and muse spins through a breathless pause of intellect. it wasn't
until fairly recent memory that i took my fuzzy paged journal to a slam 
session at a local cafe/open mic...the 
atmosphere was, as predicted...dimly lit with a small soapbox stage.  the
thing that interested me most, and countered my suspicions of these cafe's
was the fact that throughout the dark, unlit paths..there were no shadows.

     ok...what am i talking about, now?

well...no shadows.  it was almost a warmth from every crevice.  a knowing
that there was something kindred about this share of words...something 
almost delicate.

      then when the guy rambling about shooting his parents, teachers,
      and the president stepped off the soapbox...*grin*

ahh well...it's all a matter of opinion.  i felt comfort there...something
essential for anyone thinking of sharing your pen's tears.  (it
is good to know that your voice will be appreciated, yes?).  since my first
timid step into the spotlight, i have learned to crave the feedback that 
comes...near instant.  as a writer...it is always up to you how you go 
about finding sounding walls, and i do admit it is a hard task to put your
self on the line; but the results...are growth.  (YEESSSS...the G word!)

so this is my one of many stages...including, of course, the Net
duh!.  i've made many a friends at the cafe, all who i deeply 
respect...and we are constantly rebounding muse off eachother.  so the way
i see it, there's no need keeping those beautiful voices trapped inside...
let it blossom:  find your stage and use it.

~under an umbrella in June.

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